Asmodeus System: Stealing My Bully's Mother

Five days later.

The sky looming over Fortress Granderer was a heavy, suffocating gray. Snowflakes drifted down lazily, blanketing the fortress’s arrogant, bluish-black stone walls.

Inside the east wing’s recovery room, the stifling scent of herbs and medicinal concoctions hung heavy in the air.

Upon the grand bed, Kurt von Rosenberg no longer lay motionless like a corpse. The blonde youth now sat propped up against the headboard. His frame was still alarmingly frail, his skin as pale as parchment. His breathing, however, was slow and steady.

It was just that... something inside him had completely died.

The Northern heir’s icy blue eyes were completely hollow. He stared blankly at the frosted windowpane, utterly unfocused. He didn’t react to sound. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak.

Kurt had been reduced to nothing more than a breathing statue.

Miya Evarett stood by the bed, elegant in her white healer’s robes. The Elf’s pointed ears twitched slightly in response to the dead silence.

Not a single trace of the clumsy, timid Miya remained. The moment she faced a patient, her aura shifted entirely into that of an absolute professional.

"The core circuit recovery therapy is complete," Miya reported. Her tone was crisp and clear, slicing through the room’s silence. "Young Master Kurt is now capable of digesting soft foods. The Rosenberg family’s personal physicians will be more than enough to handle the rest of his physical rehabilitation from this point onward."

Hearing the medical verdict, Kurt didn’t flinch. He didn’t even spare a sidelong glance. He remained perfectly still, drowning at the very bottom of his own abyss of despair.

In the corner of the room, Isolde von Rosenberg sat impossibly rigid.

The Duchess wore a dark blue silk gown, buttoned tightly all the way to her neck. Her platinum blonde hair was pinned into a flawless bun.

However, her body language screamed an entirely different story. Her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles turned bone-white. She bit down hard on her lower lip.

A tempest of emotion raged behind her icy blue eyes. An overwhelming relief that her only son had escaped death’s grasp... violently clashing with the dark terror of knowing the devil holding her hostage was about to leave.

Across the room, Ethan Valen stood leaning casually against the wall near the window.

His tailored black shirt fit perfectly. His dark eyes swept across the room, drinking in the despair in Kurt’s hollow gaze and the trembling fear in Isolde’s fingers, like a highly satisfied director at the finale of his own macabre play.

"Our business in the North is finished," Ethan spoke, shattering the silence. His voice was flat, yet it commanded absolute attention in the room. "At dawn tomorrow, we return to Zenithar."

Isolde slowly lifted her head.

The Duchess’s icy blue eyes locked onto Ethan’s. Her gaze was incredibly complex—a lethal mixture of terror, absolute submission, and something profoundly darker. A second later, she lowered her head in utter defeat.

However, before the remaining air in the room was entirely suffocated, a giant silhouette soundlessly blocked the doorway.

Duke Alaric stood there like a statue.

His white bear-pelt cloak was draped majestically over his broad shoulders. His face, carved as hard as glacial ice, stared straight across the room, aiming directly for Ethan’s throat.

"Your debt isn’t fully settled yet, Valen," Alaric growled low. A murderous Aura caused the room’s temperature to plummet instantly.

Ethan didn’t flinch even a fraction of an inch. He shifted his shoulder off the wall, offering a crooked smirk to meet the Lion of the North’s glare.

"Tsk. We both know how to do the math perfectly well, Duke," Ethan replied calmly. "You take care of your snowy territory... and I’ll handle the rest."

Past midnight, in the desolate west wing of the fortress.

Isolde paced slowly in front of an arched stone window. Her eyes stared blankly at the courtyard below. Down there, a black carriage was being prepped for the dawn departure.

The Duchess hugged her own arms. She shivered. Not from the raging blizzard outside the glass, but from the maddening turmoil surging through her veins.

Tap... tap...

The sound of unhurried footsteps echoed from the end of the dark corridor. Isolde held her breath. She didn’t need to turn around. That masculine scent, woven with dark dominance, was already eternally branded into her mind.

Ethan stopped just inches behind the Duchess.

Isolde’s trembling hand reached back hesitantly. Her cold fingers lightly brushed the back of the young man’s hand.

"You’re... leaving," Isolde whispered hoarsely, her voice dangerously close to breaking. "Give me... one last reminder. So I never forget my place."

Ethan let out a soft snort. A dark chuckle that instantly sent violent shivers down Isolde’s spine.

Without any warning, Ethan’s hand roughly gripped Isolde’s arm. He forcibly dragged the woman into a narrow storage room nearby.

Click. The door was locked from the inside.

Absolute darkness swallowed them. The tight space was stuffy, reeking of dust and melted wax. Only a thin sliver of pale moonlight leaked through the gap under the door.

Ethan shoved Isolde’s back, pinning her against the wooden wall with a dull thud. The woman gasped, her chest heaving with ragged, breathless anticipation.

Wasting no time, Ethan’s hand slipped behind her, aggressively hiking up her dark blue silk gown. The freezing Northern air instantly bit at the Duchess’s pale skin.

The very next second, highly concentrated Sin Mana flooded into her without a shred of mercy.

"Mmph...!"

Isolde’s back arched rigidly. Upon her flawless skin, the cursed black rose vine tattoo erupted into a blinding purple glow. Her mana circuit whimpered, reacting to the absolute dominance of her master.

At that exact same second...

Tap... tap... tap...

The clicking of low heels echoed from the corridor outside. A maid was walking down the desolate hallway.

Isolde’s icy blue eyes widened in sheer horror. Her heart hammered madly against her ribs. If that maid heard even the slightest sound from behind this wooden door, her pride as the Duchess of Rosenberg would be ground to absolute dust tonight.

But Ethan was a true devil.

Fully aware of his prey’s panic, he pressed Isolde’s body even tighter against the wall. He locked her in place, then brutally multiplied the flow of Sin Mana. The purple glow on Isolde’s back burned even brighter in the darkness, incinerating what little remained of her sanity.

Hammered simultaneously by the terror of discovery and waves of agonizing euphoria, Isolde’s mental defenses completely shattered.

The Duchess bit down on the back of her own hand with all her might, desperately stifling her screams. Tears streamed heavily down her flushed cheeks. She surrendered to being thoroughly ruined inside a dusty storage room, while her own servant casually strolled less than two meters away.

The maid’s footsteps slowly faded away... before vanishing entirely at the end of the hall.

Isolde’s legs instantly gave out. Her body slumped limply onto the cold wooden floorboards, gasping greedily for air like a drowning victim.

Ethan took a step back. With casual, precise movements, he readjusted his shirt buttons, staring straight down at the fragile figure crumpled at his feet.

"Burn this night into your memory, Isolde," Ethan whispered, his tone as cold as a guillotine blade. "You belong to me entirely. Move only when I tell you to. And stay quiet... when I command it."

Isolde bowed her head deeply against the dusty floor. Still trembling violently from the lingering euphoria of the Lust Brand, the Duchess offered her absolute submission.

"Yes... My Lord."

Dawn broke, bringing a thick veil of ice fog that completely swallowed the Granderer courtyard. The morning air felt sharp enough to freeze the marrow in one’s bones.

A pitch-black carriage, pulled by two massive Northern warhorses, stood ready. The elderly coachman covered his face with a thick scarf, sitting perfectly still against the biting cold.

Ethan and Miya stood near the carriage door. Ethan wore only his black shirt, casually defying the harsh Northern weather. Miya, on the other hand, pulled her thick cloak tightly around herself.

Valera Voss stepped out from the ranks of the fortress guards.

The exotic-skinned female knight wore her signature black leather armor. Her massive Zweihander was securely slung across her back. On the left side of her neck, just peeking out from beneath her collar, the faint silhouette of a golden spiral rose tattoo could be seen.

"As ordered, I will remain here as the Duke’s personal Executioner," Valera reported straightforwardly. She bowed her head in a gesture of absolute respect. "Have a safe journey, My Lord."

Ethan responded with a brief nod. Her loyalty was firmly locked in.

High above, at the top of the fortress’s main staircase, Isolde stood frozen. Her beautiful face was once again perfectly sealed behind the untouchable, emotionless mask of the Duchess. Yet, beneath her heavy gown, the lingering throb of the purple glow on her back continued to scream Ethan Valen’s name.

However, the North wasn’t going to let them leave so easily.

Emerging from the swirling fog, Duke Alaric descended the stone steps with heavy, lethal strides. The ranks of knights instantly parted, making way for the giant.

Alaric stopped a few paces from the carriage. There was no small talk. There were no farewells.

The Lion of the North immediately raised his right hand high into the air.

BZZZTTT!

An Ice Aura, as cold as the deepest pits of hell, exploded across the courtyard. The temperature plummeted to an unfathomable degree. In the blink of an eye, the freezing vapor condensed, materializing into a colossal Ice Greatsword in the Duke’s grasp.

Without a shred of mercy, Alaric unleashed a horizontal slash. Aiming to cleanly sever Ethan’s neck in a single, brutal swing!

Ethan’s dark eyes went wide. His reflexes shrieked in terror. The Asmodeus System roared inside his head, flashing a fatal error warning. The sheer speed and destructive power of that strike were leagues beyond his current Rank’s capacity.

But right before that deadly blade of ice could touch his throat... a white silhouette blurred in from the side.

Miya Evarett stepped forward. Throwing her petite frame as a living shield in front of Ethan.

Every ounce of the Elf’s trembling fear vanished. Her spine snapped perfectly straight, boldly defying death. Her light purple eyes flared brightly, radiating the terrifying mana fluctuations of an S-Rank Sage—a power she had kept tightly sealed away.

"Back off, Duke," Miya hissed coldly.

The Elf extended her small, slender hand.

ZWOSH!

An absolute magic barrier of reddish-white light erupted from the stone tiles, towering three meters high to form an impenetrable shield.

BOOOM!!!

Alaric’s colossal ice blade violently collided with the holy barrier. A deafening sonic boom ruptured the air across the courtyard!

Shards of ice crystal rocketed in every direction like deadly shrapnel. A feral shockwave tore right through the morning fog, sending the onlooking knights’ cloaks whipping violently in the wind.

"With nothing but a magic shield...?!" Alaric growled. The veins in his neck bulged fiercely as he forced the blade deeper. Hairline fractures began to spiderweb across the surface of Miya’s barrier.

"I said back off... or it’s your ice I’ll be shattering!" Miya shot back sharply.

The Elf’s purple eyes narrowed. She twisted her wrist, forcibly pumping double her mana supply into the spell, and ruthlessly pushed the slash’s kinetic energy right back at him!

BOOM!

The stone tiles of the courtyard shattered. The violent rebound of scorching holy mana forced Alaric’s massive frame to stagger back a full step just to maintain his balance.

Alaric was stunned.

His pale blue eyes widened fractionally as he stared at the Elf girl standing before him. The pure, burning rage from seconds ago was instantly extinguished, doused by cold, calculating military instinct. It finally dawned on him that this innocent-looking healer who constantly cowered behind Ethan... was a terrifying monster wearing sheep’s clothing.

The deadly confrontation ended as abruptly as it had begun.

Alaric lowered his hand. The colossal ice sword cracked, slowly crumbling and melting into a puddle of water on the cobblestones. The Duke let out a soft huff, turning his face away with his pride still mostly intact.

"Get in your carriage before I decide to behead you using a different method, Valen," Alaric threatened coldly.

Ethan’s heart was still hammering wildly, yet he successfully forced the corner of his lips into a deeply satisfied smirk. He stared at Miya’s petite back. It turned out his fragile little pawn hid fangs sharp enough to rip the Lion of the North’s throat out.

The moment the carriage door clicked shut and the wooden wheels began clattering through the snow... the atmosphere inside the cabin flipped a complete one-hundred-and-eighty degrees.

The terrifying, S-Rank Sage intimidation Aura Miya had just unleashed vanished without a single trace.

The Elf’s tiny frame suddenly deflated. She slumped into the corner of the plush leather seat, tightly hugging her knees and her medical bag like a lifeline. Her hands shook violently like leaves caught in a hurricane. Her beautiful face went deathly pale with horror as the absolute madness of what she had just done finally caught up to her.

"M-M-My Lord... I-I just fought the Lion of the North..." Miya squeaked. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she stared at Ethan in sheer panic. "A-Are they going to hunt me down? Are they going to send assassins to chop my head off on the road?!"

Witnessing this utterly jarring split personality, Ethan could no longer hold back. A soft chuckle escaped his lips, echoing warmly inside the speeding carriage.

Ethan leaned forward. He reached out and gently ruffled the trembling healer’s blonde hair.

"You just broke his fangs inside his own den, Miya," Ethan chuckled softly, his dark eyes locking onto the Elf’s purple ones. "Good job. That was highly impressive."

Miya gulped. Her cheeks instantly flushed crimson at the shockingly rare praise escaping the devil’s mouth. She could only duck her head, desperately hiding her flushed face behind her medical bag.

Outside the carriage window, the snowy landscape blurred past.

Valera Voss stood tall in the distant courtyard, her shadow slowly fading as it was swallowed by the thick fog. The black carriage raced away, leaving Granderer behind, carrying Ethan and Miya back toward Zenithar Academy.

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